


Devil in a Black Dress

by EroticAsphyxia



Category: Criminal Minds, Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 14, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Choking, Dark!Spencer Reid, Doctor Kink, Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fire, Home Invasion, Master/Pet, On the Run, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person Omniscient, Pre-Season/Series 15, Present Tense, Spencer is Fucked_to_the_Up.jpg, Spencerine, Stalking, Watching Someone Sleep, but not by much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-09 18:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19481545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EroticAsphyxia/pseuds/EroticAsphyxia
Summary: A certain adversary insinuates herself into Spencer Reid's life, kindling an intense, evaluative journey into the world of his own darkness.(On Indeterminate Hiatus)





	Devil in a Black Dress

𝒟𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝐵𝓁𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝒟𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈

The key clicks and the lock turns in a raspy rough tumble that sneaks a good inch of light beyond the black nothing of the space within. She touches slick scarlet nails, neat curves filed into neater angles, to the door and lets it slip further forward, sweeps in shadow-silent, padding on black leather boots that whisper across the floor.

Silence pervades the air. Cat clicks the cigarette lighter on and it comes alive in a finger of flame. In one pocket sits a flashlight. She doesn't reach for it.

The walls are dark oak paneling broken up into patches of maroon. They merge into plain mint green wallpaper that is sectioned off by papered white shafts detailed with tiny grayish-green dots and shapes. Twin bookshelves hem in one such design, and Cat lets dance the flickering flame of the cigarette lighter near them; brimming with hardbacks, a few spilt open; some photographs of ocean and cliffs and lighthouses framed in wood and glass; knickknacks of pottery and porcelain. The left one holds a lighthouse in miniature fashioned out of shiny chrome and dull black metal.

In front squats a low table, and she tugs down the lamp chain there, adjusts her eyes to light fractured in tones of taupe, yellow, orange-gold. Reaches for the switch built into a green diamond on the wall which sets alight lamps in-between the shelves. They emulate the bowl of a wineglass and are held aloft by winding wooden serpents withering around the stem.

_Adorable,_ she thinks to herself. So reminiscent of him that she wonders if the space itself isn't imbued with a little leftover piece of him. Bits of stress and smarts and that shroud of gentlemanly elegance that Cat finds equal parts precious and pitiable.  
  
It's all so _him_ and all the more reason to anticipate the moment when it's all engulfed in the fury of fire. Something swells up inside her, something awful and wonderful and just the slightest bit effervescent, as she makes her way to an empty portion of floor and crouches and brings the lighter to hover above the laminate. Flame-retardant wood flooring, as she expected, but that's no matter; still satisfactory to observe the flame that succeeds in staying alight, waving wildly in a yellow streak dipped with scarlet in turn tinged with garish neon blue. Caught up in temporary reverie, Cat admires its beauty—a rose in its natural state, blossoming and bethorned. Not anywhere near a bonfire blaze but not so meager a flame that a candle would show it up. This'll do, she decides, and her mouth turns up in a tiny smirk as she slinks off to his bedroom.

Spilling its glow past the walls lathed in intricate patterns and along the wooden floors which gleam beneath both laminate and its luster, the lighter, the teeny flame wafting on the tip, leads her down a long loose hall. It's free of paintings and alternates between slabs of cherry oak and more empty plain pale green paint. Flashlight held in the other hand, Cat guides it to the threshold of his door, and then lets it beam thinly towards the sliver of space left untouched between casing and edge.

Cat creeps up to it. She squeezes the flashlight between two fingers and grasps the knob, inches open the door slowly, cringes when it gives a screechy _creak!_ and holds still. A chasm of silence spent in wait, and she's tense, expectant, anticipation riding high along the wings of her shoulders.

When nothing happens, she pushes the door in further.

His curtains are draped low but moonlight slants on in and glistens, gleams, falling in a silvery spotlight upon his slumbering figure. The pallor of his skin and the undulant movement of his chest as it rises and falls while he's submerged in deep sleep—beauteous and breathtaking, his being cased and caught up in a spill of light, silver-shot.

She stalks over to him and toys with the thought of making contact. To card her fingers through the soft curls of his hair and drag them along the smooth pale porcelain of his skin.

Memory drifts up in a lens and reflects the image of a rectangular room, cement, lights like eyelashes slipping low over two figures tangled up in each other and turning about the room, dancing under the watchful synthetic eye of a camera. Her lips unfurl into a smile. Fondness is an echo that fades from her bones with the imprint of it left behind.

She wants—Cat just _wants._ A nameless, faceless want, inundates everything in her and draws her towards him, brings her close enough to feel his breath on her skin. Her wrist tilts, lifts, leverages her hand up, up, _up._  
  
It's worth it, she decides, and touches his cheek, featherlight. Rubbing at it gently, her fingers rasping against the patch of stubble there, Cat smiles. It's as soft as it was one year hence, scraping faintly across her palm, and she gives a sigh, content, leans down to rub her nose along the slant of his chiseled cheekbone. "Oh, Spencie," she murmurs, and her breath rolls across skin shimmering with sweat; his cheeks are vaguely pink, stirred up in a sweet blush brought on by cool air, the rush of wind sneaking past the window left so very slightly ajar. "Cute, oblivious, naïve Spencie."  
  
Ruffling his hair, those luscious silky curls kissed with silver, Cat smothers her fingers beneath and brushes back strands slipping their way across his forehead, his jaw, tucks them close to his nape. A trail of the lighter along the sweep of his cheekbones has Cat mired in contemplation. "Do you know, Spencer, I could turn that pretty, precious little brain of yours into _ash._ " Nothing more than a flicker of flame to catch him alight, silken skin stretched over the elegant slant of bones, flesh she imagines peeling back to pluck at the meaty red sweetmeats waiting underneath. All of it warped and withered in the time it takes for him to open his mouth and _beg_.  
  
"Would you even have time to be scared, Spencie? Scared of me?" Her lips kiss softly-slumbering skin, her nose draws up to touch the side of his. Whispery breath wafts from his mouth, ghosts across her cheek as he shifts and turns over a touch, his hair slipping sideways along his forehead. "Oh, _babe,_ would you even _want_ to be?"

The lighter's flame melds into the moonlight and grants a luminosity to his flesh that would spellbind just about anyone, and it certainly spellbinds her. Innocence spreads its halo in a phantom glow around his soundly-slumbering figure. Beauty as shield and shelter for a multitude of monstrosities, she knows, corruption lurking within. A slumbering thing near-feral, chained, suffocating below.

How she longs to free it. Free _him._  
  
Wandering towards the foot of his bed, she sets the lighter flame above his sheets, pauses. Should she or shouldn't she? A question rendered moot when, out of the corner of her eye, Cat sees it.

The living room fire has climbed higher, gained greater heat, streaks blinding and bright against a backdrop of navy blue shadows. Ribbons of electric blue dance at the tails of it. It's more fun to watch his treasure trove of indulgences be sacrificed, she decides, and it won't be as satisfying if he isn't awake to suffer over it. Idle thoughts surface in Cat's mind in regards to his dreamscape. What does it look like within the sea of afterimages his brain dredges up after hours?

_Who're you dreaming of, Spencie? Is it me?_

"Spencer..." she croons, coaxes her own voice to lilt songlike, fondles the ripe red flush of his cheeks. Her thumbs brush in whispery arcs across their flats, knife-edged. "It's time to wake up."

*

Spencer Reid dreams. He dreams of dark things. He dreams of _his_ dark thing.

It all winds down around the woman who's shattered his life into an unrelenting hell. A whole year of it and then some he's spent surrounded by splinters and shards. Remnants of his world. All of it brought on by her desire to send him spiraling into what _she_ believed he should have made of himself.  
  
Revulsion rides him into recoil as remembrances of her sitting on his lap and doing as she desires to him, of her running her lips and teeth and tongue along his neck—his _throat_ —float out into vibrant color, detail sharpening, her voice sweet and sultry and swarming his senses with the reverberation of that wretched nickname, skating up the nonexistent edges of this dream, cold and dead and drifting out into the ether.

_Spencie._

It raises the urge inside of him to vomit up his intestines, and he envisages slippery rope after slippery rope of the organs, slick and red and replete with frays and tatters of viscera, slopping out before his feet. His thoughts come in flickers—his nails digging into her throat, constricting the pallid flesh, and him watching it redden beneath the strain and vise of his clawing fingers, the compression of her skin as his hands clench so tightly over it. With and without the hindrance that was— _is_ —one Jennifer Jareau, this scene plays out, looping in a never-ending reel, a projector wrecked and ruined of all its memory save for one.

He's been having these dreams ever since he got out of prison, but he inevitably returns to choking her each time; it's an apex in his mind. A fixed point.

His _fixation._

One such snapshot of the scene opens up in a tear amongst the black. Cat bleeding, her blood seeping through cuts small and shallow, throat glistening scarlet, like a razor running along the back of one's hand, and then fade to black as Cat goes limp, slumping within the cage of his body, within a prison of his own design; it all rivets him immensely.

A particular set of dreams recur; in these, he's not in the interrogation room where they had their tête-à-tête, but rather, a subdivision of cells. One specific cell, to whom it belongs he knows like the back of his hand. A hard, lumpy mattress, thin, very much emulating the shape of his own, and there she sits upon it, staring up at him with an expression wreathed in a dead calm.

No cellmate to interrupt what's to take place and how very fortunate he is for such.

His hair is the same mess of unkempt, unruly curls that it was then, and he's dressed the same as well. Dark suit and pants, red tie, crisp white dress shirt clinging to the strain of rigid muscles beneath. The smell of rust is reverberant throughout the scene. Everyone is conspicuous in their absence. Prison guards and prisoners alike having seemingly vanished in as silent an instance as the steady soft rise and fall of his chest and her own. Their breaths, erased of sound, mingle as one.

Just the two of them.

It's everything he could ask for and more.

She wanders over with the doubtless intention of being his equal in this charade. The fabric of her jumpsuit runs up tight against her chest and her nipples are hard, and Spencer swipes over dry, chapped lips with a tongue slick with saliva. Once she comes close enough, he reels her in, gripping her harshly by the hips. Her hands roam all over him as she takes it upon herself to explore his chest, his shoulders, the lanky build of his arms. A hand draws up to tug at his tie playfully, a tease, a taunt, a dare in how roughly he’s forced forward. His mouth thins.

"Spencie."

Fury hooks its talons so deeply it scrapes and scrawls and stamps its design into his bones. His blood boils, low in his gut, his pulse blinking in a mad rush along his throat, and the urge to just shut her up rides along the tangle of it, spasming through him like the strain of his prick, all aching and needy, and it's struggling in a hard ridge against the fabric of his pants; his left leg is locked tight against her right, the hard, hot length of his prick pressing against the curve of her thigh.

Spencer grabs ahold of her jaw and drags her up to meet his lips, a kiss heavy with desire, the heated flesh of their bodies slipping and sliding together, and he pushes against her mouth harder, his tongue insistent and sliding along the seam of her lips. Everything about it messy, rushed, entropic. Amidst the disorder and bolted down tight within the storm's silent eye, is the pure, unadulterated need to rid her of that wretched jumpsuit.

His hands draw down to squeeze her throat, and she's drawn back against the brick wall, courtesy of his body weighing down heavily over hers. Hereinafter he yanks his blazer off, rips away his shirt, lets them flutter down to the floor before bringing his lips back to hers in a bruise of a kiss. He pushes at her mouth, slips his tongue past her lips and slicks it along her own, and she moans, loud, lustful, longing, and the sound utterly gratifies him; it buzzes up into his head and the thoughts he harbors of all he wishes to do to her flurry about in a frenzy, frantic, feverish—and isn't that a mistake, an error in judgement, nothing more than that momentary distraction needed for Cat to escape his hold and shove him down onto the unforgivingly-hard cement. Her weight settles over him as her thighs span roughly the distance of his own. Just like that, she's on top, straddling him with her thighs clamping down tight over his.

She's rocking her hips back and forth, edging unbearably close to his cock yet not quite. His wrists are pinned and he’s crammed into the floor, and she’s grinding so horribly near his groin, and it’s an agonizing thing, evokes a precipitous amount of rage in him, violent, virulent, more vicious than the last.

Something tenuous snaps inside of him, some thread or wire, as she slams her teeth hungrily into the skin of his throat, and his fury is inflamed, incandescent as he wrenches himself off the ground, ripping his wrists out from under her. Managing to force himself on top of her in vie, Spencer snarls at the scratches she bestows upon his face and leans down to bite into the space where neck meets shoulder, hard, harder, hard enough that it draws blood. He rubs his cock in a rough grind against her cotton-clad cunt, edges out some of the frustration, and the friction of it all, the need to just rip her open, the coil of lust and livid rage that eggs him on to ruin her for all save himself—it's all so horrifically overwhelming. He succumbs to his wants; hastily, he unbuckles his belt one-handed, shoves off both pants and boxers. He forces both of her wrists above her head. She struggles against him, trying to break free, but to no avail.

There's a convenient hole in the thigh of her jumpsuit—perfect for him. He tears away at the flimsy fabric, from thigh to groin, twisting up and off the whole thing until it's tattered and torn, and his fingers make frantic, furious work of what clings to her upper half. What remains of the scrapped garb he snags off and flings away.

Guiding himself inside, the head of his cock just brushing up against the heat of her cunt, Spencer groans, fucking _high_ off of how wet she is for him already. He's corrupted, ensorcelled, with the tantalizing thought of throatfucking her, how much he wants her blood to coat his cock in all its hot, viscous glory. He longs to bruise her, to take a knife and turn the canvas of her skin into a portrait of red on red, to break her down into his personal plaything. Desires all of it in every which way his mind offers and even in the ways in which he knows are yet to arrive. Vengeance for the three-month—and later yearlong—hell she put him through.

He finally slots his cock inside her and a grunt escapes him at the vise of her cunt tightening all around him; slick, wet; the scent of her arousal rich, ripe, spilling into the stale prison air. He foregoes foreplay because he knows she doesn't deserve it. _She doesn't fucking deserve it._

Desire swells up inside him. It feels too big, seems as if it'll burst out of him, inhabits him like someone else is clawing and snarling and screaming to be loosed from this prison of flesh and blood and bone.

The desire to make her beg and plead and revel in him fucking her until she's so sore and spent she can't so much as crawl away for respite is a desire Spencer craves with the hunger of a dying man. Spencer craves the possibility of her becoming his obedient little pet for him to use and abuse however he pleases. Pleasure streaks through his veins at the pretty, pathetic image she'd make as she admits to how much of a desperate little slut she is. Desperate and begging and pathetic—for him. How her measure of worth fits within the sphere of letting him pleasure himself however he desires through her willing, wanton body.

He's fucking into her viciously now, refusing her body the right to adjust to him and instead taking it upon himself to work her clenching insides open, her cunt made to stretch itself thin and tight around his insistent, violating thrusts. She whimpers and moans beneath him, and he can't help but emit a chuckle at how pathetic it is—at how pathetic _she_ is—for allowing herself to fall so low like this, with all her talk of being in control. But it isn’t as if she had a choice in the matter. Not a real one, anyway.

One of his hands slides lower to lace long, fine-boned fingers around her throat. The needling press of his nails against the skin there, soft and vulnerable and oh-so-very tempting—temptation itself—excites, enraptures, enthralls him even as they press harder, biting into flesh that gives way to a slow seepage of blood. A squeeze of one hand escalates into both hands clamping down over it, and he ruts into her madly, needing the sensation of blood slicking around his cock, wanting her to cry out for mercy, for the agony of it to cease, and the prospect of such rages him on. His thighs slap against hers as he pounds her cunt into a sore, convulsive mess of arousal, pain and pleasure coalescing into a confusing whole.

A pressure building in his balls, his cock tingling and tensing with the weight of an oncoming release, but no, he can’t—he _won’t_ —give her the satisfaction of such, of spending himself inside her, spilling his seed into the greedy clutch of her cunt—and yet, it feels unbefitting to not. He wants her to beg for it in the way he envisions it. He wants her to say his name, use his title—strengthen the notion that she's his and his alone, worth only as his plaything. A tricky thing, a tempting thing, a lovely thing— the thought of it alone makes him giddy, thrills him utterly, such a lovely thing indeed—a powerful thing—perfect in its permanence—nothing more appropriate than to mark her as his and his alone.

_Mine._

So he leans down and rasps, hisses, practically purrs down at her, drinking in her moans and whimpers and whines as he forces his cock that much further inside her needy, aching cunt. "I'll come inside you, I'll give you what you want, Catherine. You have to give me what I want first, though." A particularly-cruel, sudden slam of his hips has her nearly yelping out in pain, and he threads his fingers through her hair and yanks, forcing the arch of her throat to slant up in its entirety, and he goes on. "Say my name, my title, everything that lets you know that you're just my toy, that you're worthless and pathetic and mine—say it again, and again, and again..."—each _again_ is punctuated by the slow, smooth stroke of his cock pumping into her, his hips meeting flush with hers every time—"...and then you'll get to feel my come dripping inside you." A dip of his head and his teeth are meeting her throat, his tongue dragging across the hollow of it, leaving curls of saliva cooling and faint against the smooth skin, the slight tang of sweat tingling across his tongue. "I know you want it. I know you need it. Now all you have to do to earn it is _say my goddamn name._ "

She grasps at what little modicum of control she possesses still and spits out, "No," but then there's a whimper, a whine, a hiss of anger as he goes to pull out, his cock slicking sloppily out from the gaping lips of her cunt, and she's snarling up at him, eyes fierce, teeth bared in a feral slash of bright white canines, a rictus grin. "You son of a bitch—"

He snaps it out, flat and cold, eyes slivering: "Say it, Catherine." Triumph and amusement twine through him in sizzling, fever-hot livewires, and he lets himself laugh, smirks down at her, says, "This isn't a game you're going to win."  
  
And then it's his turn to struggle, a momentary thing, as her legs lock around his waist and press him close. Her fists fit around the ridge of his cock and tug him back, the steamy heat of her cunt engulfing the head of him, and she growls, brings him ever-nearer. “You’re fucking deluded if you think I'll just let you leave, you fucking bastard..."  
  
His lips pull back in a snarl of his own, teeth set sharp and hard, gritting together, and he takes a significant amount of delight in forcing her thighs apart, and oh, doesn't she look thrilling like this, even more open and vulnerable, and he drags the head of his prick against her cunt, a slow, teasing torture. "I told you to say it—say my name already."  
  
"Fuck. I told you _no_ , so just get back here." Shoving him forward by her heels, she gets him close enough that his cock slips back inside, and so he gives up on any semblance of subtlety and rips her away. He claws at her thighs and hips and holds her a little ways away from him. His cock aches something awful and it's glistening, slick and shiny and sloppy, with her arousal; he wishes he could throatfuck her, shove his cock so far in that her lips are stretched tight, taut around his prick, her voice coming out in muffled moans and stifled screams as he thrusts in and out, sawing his cock back and forth, until he spills down her throat—streaks her hair and face and chest with his seed— _god—_

"What the hell, you bastard—piece of shit—you're so fucking—" The air is rent apart by a moan, faint and fraught with frustration, and the fantasy fragments in frittering bits as he looks down, surprise bolting through him. In the midst of his imaginings, he brought her back to him, and blood trickles down her thighs where his nails have punctured skin.

Goddamn it—he needs to come inside her—needs it now. "Say it or I leave you like this—I won't ask again." His voice is raspy and low, the grating snarl a knife's rusting serrated edge makes, scraping across dulling sheet metal.  
  
Her body slumps, limps low in defeat. Red oozes past the swell of her hips. She opens her mouth, compliant, moans it out. “ _Spencer—_ “  
  
“Again.” He plunges himself back inside—finally—biting back a grunt at the slick hot slippery sheath of her cunt, slams into her once, twice, thrice, body arching back as his orgasm rolls right up to the edge, drawn so tightly towards the inevitable drop below.  
  
“Spencer—fuck me, Spencer, fuck me until I bleed. Come inside me, I want you to come inside me." It's dragged out of her, edges just as broken and battered, and each thrust of his hips wrests from her a needy moan that rides along the high the sight of her reduced to nothing but his submissive little slut induces in him, injected directly into his bloodstream. Tiny fish hooks catch at the underside of his brain and spill spasms of sensation up and down the nerves of his spinal cord. "Fuck, Spencer."  
  
“Use my title, too, _babe._ ” Endearment that it is, it tastes of salt and brine and ash upon his tongue, but he likes it, loves it, and he wraps his lips around the razored weight of it, gives his tongue a moment to familiarize itself with the inevitable scars and splits it leaves behind. "You're my toy, _babe,_ so you should have no trouble begging me to come inside you, now should you?"

Leaning down, he smothers her mouth beneath his, bites at the cushion of her lower lip, edges his teeth across the flesh of it and then rears back to regard her loftily. Superiority thrums the beat of his heart to the rhythm of the smug and self-assured. He purrs, "You're my obedient little pet, Catherine, and the only way an obedient little pet gets rewarded is if she obeys her fucking master."

There's a glowing heat in his chest. Spreading out, it splays its fingers in every direction, fans the fever-hot scorch of lust within him to a column of flame, mounting higher and higher, fanned to a riot of red tinged with blue.

“You should know that I can hold out for longer than this,” he says. "I can just make you wait, Cat,” and his tone is teasing, a grin working his expression into absolute gleeful triumph. “You can suffer for it if that’s what you really want.”

“Fuck, fine, I'll do it. You want to hear me _fucking say it?_ " she hisses out, venomous, a violent retribution glancing off of the lens of her eyes. "Then I'll fucking say it.” She grits her teeth and digs her nails into his back as he increases the rapidity of his thrusts. The obscene noise of flesh hitting flesh fills the air. The stench of arousal floods his senses, paints the air in broad strokes, itches at his nose. Her voice is a groan when it comes out, throaty and raspy and threaded through with the ache of arousal, and he fucks into her so hard his teeth vibrate like a drill jabbing away at cement. "I'll do it. I'll give you what you want, _Doctor._ "

"That's more like it," he rasps, propelling his hips further, faster, pounding and pushing and plunging in so fucking deep, and he feels it, something splitting, rupturing, an entirely new slick heat washing over his cock, and he gasps at it, grunts out, "Fuck, I'm going to come, Cat."

"Then do it already—Doctor—Doctor Reid, I just want to feel it inside me. I want all of your come inside me, I want you to make me so sloppy with it. Make me _all_ _yours_." She whimpers it out, slick and hot and sweaty with exertion, her breasts heaving and agleam with sweat, and Spencer gives them a sharp squeeze, pinches her nipples. They redden beneath his touch, hardening, hot little nubs of sensitive flesh. Her hair clings to her face, the curves of her cheeks, curls slightly along the slope of her jaw. Scraps of skin have been scraped off of her lips, leaving them glistening and red, a bruised little rosebud, and she's gasping, groaning out her words. "C'mon, I know you can do it. Come inside me, Spencie, prove to me that I'm yours. Make me understand that it's you I belong to."  
  
Again with that godforsaken petname and he slams into her harder, hips shifting, pounds away at her cunt until the clawing at his back turns into pins and needles splitting open skin. His hips blur. His balls ache, bloated and cramped, with the need to spill his seed inside her. Mark her as his pathetic little toy that's only good for pleasing him. Her only purpose to sate his lust and his rage and nothing more.  
  
 _Mine._  
  
When his orgasm finally fucking arrives, it crests through him, tumbles sensation in a chain of sparks exploding and expanding in sync, searing white-hot flames that swallow him into the inferno of it all, and he's coming, coming so goddamn hard and it hurts—but it's a good hurt, satisfying on every level, washes through his blood and bones in a heady rush—

His come spills and spills and spills inside her. His whole body trembles and bows back as his hips push forward and push up. His mouth opens on a moan, deep, harsh, humid with the relief of his orgasm. His breath gusts out of him. He’s panting and he’s shivering and tiny notes of dizziness drum up amidst his mind.

When he looks down, shock jolts him, disbelief following at its heels.

Her cunt is sloppy. So utterly sloppy. His seed is dripping down her thighs, spilling into the dark nest of her pubic hair. It clings to the curls and he stares and stares, caught up in delight, smugness, pride. Hunger rears its head up and lunges, nearly breaks him out into a rut. Pure, unbridled instinct, impulse driving him forward if not for the holdover of iron and adamantine his control manages to grant him. It’s a close thing, though.

Cat’s head lolls and lists to the side, and he gets her to face him by the hand clamped down tight around her throat. The whole of him is still so goddamn needy and greedy and hungry—ravenous—fuck, he wants to be inside her again. Again and again and again. All of his muscles are slack and dead but his brain is livid, a luster blooming it to a blinding cluster of neurons and synapses as the prospect of rutting into her all over again bolts him through.

Repeating the cycle, cramming time into nothing but the beat of the moment she says his name to the beat of the moment he pounds into her once more as if she isn't already so full with his seed flooding out from her aching, abused, agonized cunt…

A tingle of pleasure dances up the line of his softening cock and he shudders. Fuck.  
  
Spencer manages a groan, teeth gritting around his final words, and he breathes them into being. "You're mine." His voice is but a whisper that dissipates, slivers of smoke and shadow, erased from existence. _"All mine."_

*

His eyes bolt open. He jolts awake, beads of sweat coating his body, rolling down the planes of his chest. His curls are plastered to his scalp, the nape of his neck is clammy and cold with perspiration.

There's no time to adjust. Shrill and piercing, the smoke alarm splits his senses apart, and there's a wall of fire, and the thick, choking smog of smoke smothers the air. Flames are cresting higher, eddying all the way into the hall, and it snatches up the lion’s share of his attention.

Sheets are scrambled out of and the mattress lets out a weak squeak as Spencer staggers away for the fire extinguisher. Convenience places it in a slant against the door to his closet (hadn't he left it beside his dresser though?) and he races to the living room with it in tow. Silvery gas billows out of the tube, weighs the flames down, wears them out in a wash of silver over scarlet.

Relief swamps him. Oh, _god_. The flames have been abated before time gave them the potential to lance so high into the eaves that the entirety of his living room would be reduced to a blackened husk, and he tenses his fingers, curls and flexes them along the barrel of the fire extinguisher. A muscle in his jaw jumps and he clenches his teeth in something that could be mistaken for a smile if not for the rage etched into every line of his face.

The prospect of his possessions, prized and well-loved, going up in so much smoke and flame...

A coil of homicidal rage spirals within him, ignites the hollow of his gut, breaks out into a wildfire that has an awful red flush crawling up from his chest to his throat.

The scent of smoke spreads out into his apartment, sneaks into every nook and cranny, slips into all the hidden spaces. It spills into his mouth and squeezes up his nostrils; a deep breath, a counting down of the seconds starting from ten, and the bang of metal upon wood flooring is jarring as he slams down the extinguisher.

He turns around.

He faces her.

Even if he didn't see her, caught a flash of that grinning visage and those cold dark eyes in his haste to save his home, even if a search turned up nothing, he would know.

She dons a grin at his gander and says in as sweet a voice as spun-sugar, “Hi, Spencie.”

His reaction is inevitable.

He's on top of her in the span of a single smoke-stifled breath. She’s slammed up against the wall and he smothers her, bears down on her, his weight bringing her to a painful press against the stained oak paneling. He makes no game of what he's after; his hands wrap around her throat and his fingers lace up, vise-tight, locking around it.

Rage bolsters him to squeeze hard, hard, harder—so goddamn hard that her breath is hitching and rasping and her throat is moving frantically. Cat's eyes are wide and round and her mouth opens on a silent gasp.  
  
" _Stop,_ " she manages to gag out, and it's barely a word. The syllable is smothered and shorted out with the fingers digging into her trachea. It's as awful and electric a high as before—no, better than, so much better—no JJ to stop him, no cameras, nothing to keep him from giving into his rage, his hate, the way it all churns his stomach and carves a need steeped in savage desire to do with her as he will without the incessant itch of something so goddamn righteous and moral as _it's wrong, it's bad, Spencer, it's not you!_ swarming him, suffocating, shoving him down into passivity, docility, something meek and mild and fucking weak.  
  
Sparks in her eyes, slanting into streaks of heat and light and lurid color across her face, spilling into the laughter that is choked out into being. Glimmering at the edges of her grin, reflected in the gleam of her teeth, a smug knowledge, a feral, animalistic truth.

Her lips shape the words and it's a weak tongue that grants them passage from a throat that is moving in a frantic, erratic turbulence, inhales merely air sharply sucked-in, whispering in tandem with her words, and her breath shallows, begins to bottom out.

"I still win, Spencer."

His stomach drops into the bands of his ankles, cramps, curdles, curls up into a shriveled ugly thing.

His mind tilts, unmoors from rationale in full, and he's lunging forward. Lips smothered beneath his own and a cluster of breaths stuttering down his throat. Slack lips, and then firm, shoving back, smothering him in turn. Cat gasps into his mouth and groans even as her muscles slip loose and her eyes drift shut.

It's only after he pulls back with the shock of it all thrumming through him, finally catching up with time and transferring it to the lift of his body away from hers, that she slumps, limp, sinking down to sag within his hold.

Their breaths latch together for a second.

A shared existence.

Then it's simply her body slipping into the void of unconsciousness, breath drifting into just a shadow of life, and Spencer can do nothing more than stare.

The rest is silence.


End file.
